No Stars in Gotham
by thefalconwarrior
Summary: The third Sunday of June. Humans have slapped a label on the date, but it's a day like any other. The world doesn't stop and life goes on. Under Gotham's dark, empty sky, five children mourn their parents. There's nights when it's hard to believe in happiness. (Comfort is going to be...at the very end. Unfortunately.)
1. Teardrops Everywhere

**A/N:** Inktober Prompt #8: Star.

My first multi chapter fic. But for the record? I'm not sure why I'm writing this.

* * *

_Chapter 1: Teardrops Everywhere_

The alley is dirty and dingy and smells like smoke and sweat and something else, something that Dick can't quite place but he knows he's smelled it before, behind circus trailers and in the bushes around wherever the circus had set up camp, places where people went to be alone. Places where _you're not supposed to be, Dickie_, but Dickie is nothing is not curious and being small and an acrobat is wonderful for spy work and maybe one day, when Dickie grows up and if he doesn't want to be in the circus anymore (because Dickie's mind has always jumped from one thing to another and there's so much in the world to see, so much to do, and yes the circus is a good way to see things in the world but it's still just one thing and Dickie wants to see _more and more and more_-) he'd go on and become a spy (even if Tati laughed and ruffled his hair in the way he did when he wasn't taking him seriously and Mami just smiled and shook her head.)

But Dickie is not in the circus anymore. Dickie doesn't even know where the circus is, anymore. Tati's not here, and he won't laugh and ruffle his hair, and Mami isn't here, and she won't smile and listen to Dickie's story, because they're not alive anymore.

And Dickie doesn't know that he will grow up, anymore.

The memory of two bodies falling (_fallingfallingfallingMamiTatinonononoNO_) is still fresh in his mind and even with just a week or two on the streets after running from the JDC he's seen enough to know that being eight and small and sneaky and an acrobat and growing up in a circus where he's already learned to be wary of "shady characters", as his Tati had called them, was not necessarily enough to keep a person alive.

Being small and sneaky can help. But being a child and alone makes things harder.

Alone.

_Mami. Tati._

He pulls his knees in tighter where he is huddled against the wall next to a dumpster, buries his face in them and tries to cry quietly.

* * *

When two people skid into the alleyway Dickie feels something inside of him tighten painfully. His face is numb and buzzy and his clothes are covered in snot and tears and his breath is all hitchy but he closes his mouth and curls even smaller and holds his breath and _pleasepleaseplease don't let them hear me, please_.

"The HELL was that?" one voice growls, and Dickie, for all his curiosity, doesn't dare raise his head to see if it was the big person or the little person.

"Relax," the other voice drawls. "We clear away now, ain't we?" This one sounds like—like a teenager.

"An' we very nearly didn't!" The growly one roars, and Dickie flinches and curls tighter and prays, prays they weren't looking and hadn't seen the dark huddle next to the dumpster move.

The teenager tries to hush the guy but he isn't having it. "And what we got to show for it now, hunh? After we run off like little chickens?"

"Our lives," the teen says drily. "And hey—take a look at this." Something rustles and clinks, then there is silence. "Happy Father's Day, Pops."

* * *

A glance at the date from a TV playing basketball in a bar confirms that it is June 16th. He gets the flowers from Robinson Park and he feels just a little bad, but it's a public park and the bush had lots of flowers, so it should be okay right?

The graveyard fence will one day be spiked and electrified and booby trapped in days when no one can any longer trust death nor the dead. But the year that Dickie Grayson is eight years old the only nighttime security is a chain and padlock on the gate.

Being small and sneaky and an acrobat, it's no trouble for the little boy to climb and flip over the fence.

He has to wander around a little, stepping between flat stones like tiles and tall stones and statues like Tati's mismatched chess pieces and even ducking around mini houses before he finds them. Two small, simple slabs of gray rock.

_John Grayson, Beloved Father, Husband, and Friend. Mary Frederick Grayson, Beloved Mother, Wife, and Friend._

"Hello Mami, Tati," he whispers, placing the flowers carefully before the stones. He sits back on his heels, biting his lip and rocking a little.

"I ran away," he admits quietly. "I'm supposed to be at the JDC, but that place is scary and the people are mean and—and they hurt people there, Mami, Tati, so I ran away. You ran away too, right Mami? I know I'm not supposed to know that but people like to tell stories. I know I'm not supposed to be listening because it's ea—ees—easedropping and that's bad, I'm sorry Mami. But I heard them say that you ran away and you found Tati and then you got married and you stayed with the circus."

He sniffs loudly and lets himself fall backwards so he is sitting instead of crouching. "I'm glad you found Tati and the circus when you ran away, Mami. I didn't find anyone and the circus is already gone and Tati is already gone and you're gone, too, Mami." His face is wet, again, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Oh yeah, and I just found out it was Father's Day. So—so happy Father's Day, Tati." His lip wobbles, and finally he gives in. "I miss you," he says, and for the second time that night he lets the tears come.

He doesn't have to be quiet this time, though. No one else is here. So he sobs. He sobs loud and hard and gasps and whines and even when the tears stop he sits there for a long time gasping and not even trying to breathe normally, until finally he swallows and finds he doesn't have to suck in air anymore so he doesn't try to take a deep breath, just lets the air come in and go out without thinking about it, like it normally does.

He wiggles into the space between the two stones and lies down. They used to this _before,_ at night outside the trailer. Dickie would lay down between his Mami and Tati, and Mami would slip an arm under him and pull him close and Tati would have an arm around both of them, and they'd watch the stars.

There are no stars in Gotham, not tonight. The sky is gray and dark and swirly. But a tiny pinprick of light catches Dickie's eye. He's not sure it's a star—it could be a plane or an alien ship or anything but he doesn't care. He lies between his Mami and Tati and watches the star.


	2. Heartbeat Stops

_Chapter 2: Heartbeat Stops_

This part of the city is quiet at 12 A.M.

Quiet, Jason knows, is not good. Never good. Even loud, drunken laughter and the sound of raised voices yelling about who's been seen where doing what are better than quiet. Quiet without your instincts tingling at you to get OUT means your instincts are broken. Quiet means you put your head down and get inside as fast as you can because pretty soon it won't be quiet anymore.

Jason is currently ignoring all of that.

There are three steps that lead to the dingy glass door that leads into the tiny, grubby lobby of Jason's apartment building. These steps are rough, chipped concrete covered in gum both old and black and hard and fresh and multi-colored and sticky. There are dark spots where someone had spit and the white-and-black smears of pigeon poop. The metal railings to either side are dull, rust-brown and dented.

All of this could be seen with just a glance at the building. But what can't be seen as easily is the corner beside the steps, where piles of boxes and old furniture that had been set out as garbage three years ago have never actually been moved.

Jason is relatively certain he is the only one who knows there's room between the pile and the corner made by the staircase and the wall, if you slip in right between the big pink plastic box with the spider-shaped crack and the ugly yellow sofa that had once graced Ms. Corden's living room. He figures that if he can sit with his knees pulled up and pressed as tight as possible to his chest, he can make use of the hiding spot until he is sixteen, at the very least.

Assuming he makes it to sixteen, of course. It feels such a long way off.

All that said, it sounds laughable to say that Jason was here because he needs some air. Although to be fair there are several gaps in the furniture piled over his head from which he can see the sky.

Someday all that furniture might just fall onto Jason's head. He wonders, morosely, what'll happen when it does. If it'll hurt. How bad. If anyone will realize he was there.

Dark thoughts for a twelve year old, but they're better than the ones he's attempting to chase away.

The moment he acknowledges the fact the memories of half an hour ago spill back into his mind. He grits his teeth.

What the hell, he's hiding under a pile of garbage in a corner. No one will be looking for him. Better to think and feel and get it over with right now in his few minutes of privacy.

* * *

He's not sure how it started and to be honest, he doesn't really care. He'd been in his bedroom, sitting on his bed with math and English and science homework spread out around him, notebook on his knees as he scribbled down math problems.

He'd heard the voices begin through the two-inch crack of his open door. He had homework and deadlines and it wasn't too loud. He kept scribbling homework problems and wished for an MP3 player and headphones.

He wanted water but not badly enough to leave his bedroom. But after an hour of intermittent periods of voices and silence, he finally decided that he really, really wanted water and he should be okay to just slip into the kitchen and slip out. So he left his bedroom.

Catherine Todd was in the kitchen, leaning over the sink. Willis Todd was on the sofa in the living room with a beer in his hand. Neither of them looked up.

Jason slipped inside. Walked up to the countertop, opened the cabinet, stood on his toes to reach a glass.

He figures what he did next was the mistake.

He went up to the sink, whispered a soft excuse me, and Catherine moved away so he could tip the faucet to cold water and fill up his glass.

He hadn't realized she'd drifted off until he heard voices, again, and he ignored them, shutting off the sink.

"SHUT UP!"

He nearly dropped his glass as he whirled around. Catherine was standing halfway inside the living room. Willis was inches away from her, his face red.

He gathered all this in the millisecond before he yelled "Hey now!", slammed his glass onto the countertop and sprinted into the living room. Willis was standing so close to Catherine that Jason couldn't slip between them, but he stuck his arm into the four inches between Catherine and Willis's chest.

He couldn't, for the life of him, exactly recall what had happened next. There'd been screaming, a lot of screaming. Things about...idiots. Ungratefulness. Taking care of people. Alcoholics and henchmen and people who were so down in life they had to work for the Joker. School and jobs and money. In the midst of this all, Catherine had backed away, thank God. But at some point she had nearly gotten slapped but then Jason had instead, and there was the sound of glass crashing and tinkling into a hundred pieces against the wooden floor.

The last clear image he has is off Willis sitting on the sofa, scowl firmly in place as he stared across at the TV. Catherine kneeling on the ground sniffling as she picked up glass.

He wanted to scream. He went into the bathroom to wet a towel for his face—they had no ice but maybe the coldest water he could get from the tap would work a little.

By the time he got out, Willis had banged out the door (probably to get more beer. He hoped he didn't come back tonight. Tomorrow would be nice, too.) His mom had shut herself in her room and Jason knew she'd have a few needles with her.

With all the screaming that had been going on, he figured no one would notice if he added another but Catherine had just gone into her room and he didn't know how far Willis had gotten yet.

He didn't scream.

But he wanted air, so he ran out of the apartment and down five flights of stairs and three steps, and slipped between the cracked pink plastic box and the ugly yellow sofa.

* * *

It isn't fair, he decides, as he wipes tears away from his eyes. One day, he figures, he'll be at school and come home to find one or the other of his parents with a knife in them. One day his dad won't come home or he'll find Catherine lying in bed staring at the ceiling like he always does, except she won't be breathing.

It isn't fair, he figures, that he has to live with knowing that any day now he could find one of his parents dead and there is nothing he can really do about it. That sometimes he doesn't even want to do anything about it.

Because sometimes he does want to, and that only feels so much worse.

He tilts his head back to listen to the silence and stare at the sky through a gap between half a crib and a bathroom cabinet.

Dark gray clouds swirl over a dark gray sky. There is a plane or something up there. A pinprick of light. It can't be a star, because there are no stars over Gotham.

Whatever it is, Jason watches it as he huddles under a pile of old boxes and broken furniture, waiting for the silence to break.


	3. Broken Happy-Ever-Afters

_Chapter 3: Broken Happy-Ever-Afters_

It's kind of cold, this high up. Tim shivers a little and pulls his too-big black hoodie tighter around himself.

He shouldn't be here, he knows. He's just been getting over a bad throat infection. The cold won't be good for him.

Besides which, ten-year-olds probably shouldn't be on rooftops five miles away from home in a notoriously crime-infested city by themselves.

There's no one to tell him that, though. No one to realize he's gone and go looking for him or report him missing or anything.

Taking all that into account...it should be fine, that he's up here alone.

'Here' being on top of a fifteen-story office building. It's not the highest in the area, so he can't gaze across the city because of all the other buildings in the way. But he can see Wayne Tower between gaps, and he's high enough that if he looks down on the street all the people can blur into clouds, cars colorful rooftops which he would need to watch longer than a few seconds to identify their make and model.

More specifically, 'here' being huddled against a concrete structure that he figures has something to do with the central heating system.

There are tears prickling behind his eyes and he closes his eyes and takes a deep, almost-steady breath. He refuses to let his breath hitch, to let the moisture slip past his eyelashes.

Tim has been running Gotham's streets every night for years, now. He's seen kids who've run away from home, for better and for worse, fighting to survive as they strolled down crowded streets or hid in shadowed alleys. He's seen kids lying beaten up, or running from some villain or mob boss or another. He's seen exchanges made at street corners and in dark alleys, watched people get mugged and mobbed and even murdered.

His problems, he feels, are nothing to cry about, in retrospect.

* * *

He had really forgotten the day. Honestly, truly, sincerely. He _knew_ it was June, that was rather hard to miss. He knew it was the 16th, because he had a math test. But Tim was a quiet boy too often lost in his own thoughts. Smaller and younger than his classmates, they left him alone; more intelligent and sensitive than kids his age, they left him alone as well. Which is why Tim, who spent June 16th lost in his own thoughts of math and Batman and Robin and the adventure he had planned for tonight, did not bump into anything or anyone that would allow him to take any special notice of the date until that night.

His mom and dad were currently somewhere in South America, and as it was Tuesday night (he remembered that too) he diligently plugged the number that he had written on a post it to keep on the fridge into the phone, and waited for one of his parents to pick up.

Mom picked up. She was absentminded, saying hello, told Tim she was doing well and asked him how school was. He told her about the math test. She answered with a "good, very nice dear," before promptly adding, "Here, talk to your father now."

Dad had been excited the moment he came to the phone.

"Heya, Timmy!"

"Hi Dad," Tim answered. If Dad was in a good mood and Mom was absentminded, the ten year old thought, it probably meant there had been a good find at the dig site and he would no doubt be hearing all the details soon. But instead there was an awkward, expectant silence from the other end of the phone.

"Well?" Dad prompted. "You got something to say to me, Tim?"

_What?_ Tim racked his brain. Had he done anything special recently? There was that A on the science test two days ago, but his parents had never given a good grade anything more than a halfhearted nod. Had he done something _wrong?_ He didn't think so. Oh no, had they found out about the late-night sneakouts—no, they couldn't have. Tim was too careful and his parents too—oblivious, for lack of a better word.

So what was Dad waiting for?

He didn't know. And that scared him.

"What?" he asked weakly. Already knowing this would not go well.

"You know. The date?" Dad pushed, and Tim was beginning to panic. He could feel his heart _thump-thump_ing.

"June? June 16? Is it..." oh.

"Happy Father's Day?" Dad definitely sounded disappointed now.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Tim whispered. "I forgot."

Dad made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, and over the phone, with no face to match with it, Tim didn't know what it meant. It could be disappointed or amused or angry or understanding but Tim didn't _know._

"You know, I guess it's alright to forget the date, and all," Dad said, sounding hurt. "Although I mean, you remembered the date alright just not what's special about it. But you know, I've taken care of you all your life so I figured you'd remember. You know, be nice and all to show some gratitude back."

"I'm sorry," Tim whispered, and he would never know why it was that those words made him break. _I've taken care of you all your life_...as far back as Tim could remember his parents were more likely not to be home than home. If he looked back far enough he could maybe remember a time when Mom had actually stayed home for a few months at a time, when he was very small, but Dad had always been a voice over the phone, a face that popped into the house for a few days or so every few months before disappearing again and leaving Tim in the house with a nanny.

He wanted to _go,_ so he did something he wouldn't usually dream of doing. He lied straight to his dad's-well. Not straight to his face, obviously, seeing as they were on the phone. But he told a direct and blatant lie.

"I've got a quiz tomorrow—a math test," he doubted they knew that it had been _today,_ not tomorrow, so he would be fine. "I should—I should go to bed, I have math first period (also a lie, he had it third) and I should study a little before so I'll have to wake up early and—I should go."

Dad sighed. "Yeah, alright Tim. Night."

"Bye," Tim whispered, and waited for the dial tone (he hated being the one to hang up) before slamming the phone back onto the cradle and running to his room to change.

He had to go _out._

* * *

It's not a big deal and he really overreacted running all this way to hide on the rooftop of a fifteen-story building in the middle of Gotham City. He shouldn't be sitting here fighting back tears—it's stupid, there's nothing to cry about. He should get up and go back home.

Time doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to go home.

He's on a fifteenth-story building but he's surrounded by taller ones and it makes him feel so _small._ And all of a sudden the thought of looking down make him feel dizzy.

So instead he tips his head up, banging it against the concrete structure behind him to stare up at the sky instead.

Gotham's night sky is the dark gray of air and light pollution. Heavy swirls of even darker gray migrate across the sky, and Tim idly wonders how much is smog and how much is actual clouds.

The sky is so _big,_ though.

Something catches his eye, and he focuses on a little pinprick of light amongst all the gray, gray, gray. He eyes it for a few moments, waiting for a flash of red, counting to fifteen and checking to see if it had moved at all.

Nope and nope.

A star, maybe? Tim wonders. Usually, there are no stars over Gotham. Too much pollution, smog _and_ light.

It looks like a star, though, and Tim decides he will think of it as one. Somehow, watching the lone spot of light in the dark gray sky made him feel less alone.

Tim did not go on an adventure that night. Instead, he sat on the rooftop for hours with his eyes locked on a single star in Gotham's dark sky.


	4. Wrecking Balls

_Chapter 4: Wrecking Balls_

It's an odd place to sleep, but that doesn't bother Cassandra.

It's late. It's very dark, or as dark as it will get in Gotham. There are too many lights on the buildings and on the streets for it to ever be as dark as the inside of a room might.

That doesn't bother Cassandra either.

But she's tired. She had to fight someone for the food she'd found in an alley. She'd won, of course. She'd been careful not to hurt him too much.

She knows how to kill, and how not to kill. But she also knows what kinds of hits in which places hurt the most.

It feels terrible to be hurting. She doesn't want to hurt anyone again, never ever ever ever ever ever again-

But she wants to _live,_ too, so she needs food. And she found the food and he'd hit her first, so she fought _back._

Something told her it was only right, after all. She's seen other people do it. Most people seem to approve of fighting _back._

She still felt guilty after, though, and left him half the food. She wishes he could have just asked. She would have shared.

Probably.

But anyways, Cassandra is tired. So as soon as she sees the metal poles and green-painted wood of scaffolding against a building, she scrambles up the crossed bars, vaults herself over the wood, and settles in.

She gets a few splinters from the rough wood, but she hardly notices them. She thinks she should probably pull them out...but she's too tired, and the hurt is just a tingle to her. She's hurt so much _more_ that it just doesn't feel important enough for her to deal with before she sleeps.

She sleeps with one eye open, aware enough to leap up and _run_ at a moment's notice.

She always does.

(It doesn't bother Cassandra. Really, it doesn't.)

* * *

When she hears voices, she doesn't quite snap awake.

(She used to, before. But since she's learned that sometimes people won't even look her way, or that some people _will_ but will just keep walking, or some will come up to her but won't actually _hurt_ her. So she doesn't _quite_ snap awake anymore, in that she doesn't go from drifting in her mind and thoughts to a defensive position in three seconds. Only her eyes snap open, and her body stays still as she watches and listens and assesses the threat before she chooses how to react.)

There's people walking underneath her. They're talking to each other—they don't know she's up here.

She's not sure _why,_ but Cassandra is curious, and, well, there's no one else on the street to see her. She tips herself to hang with her head _just_ hanging low enough to peek under the scaffolding.

There's two people standing there. There's a man and a little girl. They talk to each other, and Cass lets the words flow over her as she studies them both.

The man is (brown haired, slightly going gray, just a _little_ old—not that that matters much) tall and thin (not wiry or muscley, walks in a comfortable slouch that does not disguise any sense of physical strength or readiness) and very, very tired. She can see it in the way he's standing. But the smile on his face is real, and it goes all the way up to his (brown, narrow, with wrinkles around the edges) eyes, hiding the _tired_ there.

The little girl (same colored hair, tied into two ponytails in a familiar hairstyle that still makes Cassandra shudder, wearing a pink dress and a black jacket. Nice clothes, going-out-clothes) is bouncing on her feet (excited, so very very excited and _purely happy_ that Cassandra feels a pang because she can recognize the emotion but has never felt it herself) and doing all the talking.

The man listens to her, and the girl chatters on, and Cassandra can _feel—something,_ between them, something special and warm and beautiful. Finally the girl takes a box out of her jacket pocket. The man's eye's and shoulders go _surprised,_ and he takes the box and opens it as the little girls gets _excited excited more and more and more excited_ and the man laughs and gives the little girl a hug.

(Cassandra wonders what a hug feels like when you're not hurting at the same time. She thinks about the last hug she had been offered—but she had been hurting, not hurting like she normally did but hurting in a different way, a way that wasn't bleeding or bruising but hurt all the same. She didn't take that hug. She ran away.)

* * *

Cassandra lies on the scaffolding. It's still dark but she's not tired anymore. (It doesn't bother Cassandra, because she might be cold and alone and a little scared, but she's _here_ and _away_ and _free)_

So instead she stares at the sky and thinks about Cain. She thinks about the little girl and the man and she thinks about Cassandra and Cain and wonders if they're the same.

She remembers the _happy_ that the little girl was just _vibrating_ with, the happy coming from the man even though he was so _tired,_ and that warm fuzziness that seemed to flow between them (One day Cass would know the feeling and know its name. But today it's a feeling too foreign for her to recognize, let alone name.)

She thinks about Cain. When she thinks about Cain she thinks _hurts_ and _scared_ and sometimes _proud,_ but there's no real _happy_ or _excited_ or _warm._

And then she thinks of the heavy feeling like she'd eaten too much after a week without food, sitting in her stomach and making her feel sick.

No, she decides. Cassandra and Cain were nothing like the little girl and the man she had just seen.

And anyways, there was no Cassandra and Cain anymore. Just Cassandra.

It doesn't bother her. For real this time. Cassandra is happy with just Cassandra. She does not want Cassandra and Cain anymore. Not ever again. She might be cold, and she has to fight for food, and sleep with one eye open, and be all alone all the time (even when she does meet someone nice—even if she can understand what they are saying, they never understand her. They always leave, in the end.)

But there's no more Cassandra and Cain, so she's-not happy, exactly. But all those things—they don't bother her.

Something in the dark sky catches her eye, and she stares in fascination. A tiny little spot of light against the dark night sky (there are clouds, swirly clouds, but she knows these won't bring rain.) Cassandra has not seen stars often, even less often than she has seen the sky.

This might just be a star, though. Are there stars in Gotham City? She'd like to think there are. That this _is_ a star.

It's a pretty thing. So she lies in her bed for the night and watches the star.


	5. Impending Drop

_Chapter 5: Impending Drop_

The city is loud and bright and crowded.

There's too many voices and the constant sound of cars rumbling forward and screeching to a stop. There are lights lining the streets and lights inside windows and lights _on_ windows, and so, so many people.

Damian hates it.

He clutches on to his mother's hand as he jogs along beside her. If she notices him tightening his grip she doesn't react. For a moment he wonders what would happen if his hand slipped away—would she notice?

The thought makes him pick up his pace, desperate not to be left behind by his mother's long-legged stride. A small part of him scolds him—she won't just forget him, leave behind. Talia al Ghul may be absentminded, and relies a lot on nurses and nannies, and she's a little harsh when her father is in the vicinity, but she is his mother and she loves him and Damian knows it, has seen it.

He stumbles a little over a crack in the sidewalk and hates the city even more. Talia does not break her stride, but she does glance down at him. She smiles. Her eyes are distant, and the turn of her lips is small. But it's a smile and it's for Damian.

It's enough.

* * *

Mother sits back in her chair, relaxed and in control. The man across the table from her leans forward.

_Too eager,_ Damian knows. _And broadcasting it_.

He's seen this scene played over and over, always ending in victory for his mother.

Talia Al Ghul is good at what she does.

(Damian will never admit it, but the "what she does" is still a little hazy to him.)

The truth is, Damian is a little bored. And he's seen this scene played over and over, so he thinks it should be okay that he lets his mind wander a little. They are in a little diner that Damian can only describe as _seedy._

(Also maybe _grimy_ and _dirty_ and _tiny_ and _absolutely disgusting_, and...well. You get the idea.)

They're sitting in a booth in the corner. Two brown, fake leather benches, so cracked that the hard edges poke into the back of Damian's legs and he can see the soft gray lining in a sunburst at the middle of the bench. He sits at the edge of the bench facing the door, his mother seated in the middle and the contact seated across from them. The table in between them is a slightly nauseating yellow, smooth and splattered with brown stains that Damian is pretty sure are coffee. On his mother's other side is the window—grimy, gray with smudges from dirty hands, the smog of the city, and Lord-knows-what-else.

There are six other tables. A counter where orders can be given and the kitchen can be seen beyond. There are three people working in the diner, two in the kitchen, the last at the counter. The counter worker also apparently functioned as a waiter, coming to tables when new patrons arrived. He'd been standing at the counter for the past twenty-three minutes.

There are only two other groups of patrons in the diner, currently. An elderly man and woman, both silver haired, sharing a slice of cake. And a young boy—Damian estimated him to be two or three years older than himself—with a young man. Dark haired, both of them, one blue-eyed and the other brown, but beneath the baby fat of the younger they had the same jawlines and the same lips and the same eyebrows. Brothers, Damian thought, or father and son.

His hypothesis was proven correct when the boy beamed at the man and said, "Happy Father's Day, Dad."

His mother's voice, low and smooth, and the contact's voice, rough and too quick, flowed beside him. He'd analyzed everyone in the diner—he doubted they were a threat. Of course, he kept a loose attention on both the conversation in his immediate vicinity and the softer, unheard ones of the other patrons. But he let his mind wander.

Damian did not know who his father was. Mother told him he was a powerful and clever man. He existed, Damian knew. He was alive. Mother said she would tell him, some day. The day he finally bested her in the annual combat training they held on his birthday.

(He would never admit it. Ever. But the idea of finally getting that long-sought answer was one of the few reasons why he held any enthusiasm for his training.)

(He wondered if he was like Mother. Was he busy and absentminded? Powerful? Strong and clever?

Would he love Damian? Would he smile at him?)

(He also wondered if he was not like Mother. If he would stop every time Damian spoke to _listen._ If he would notice when Damian's hand tightened or slipped. If he gave hugs to the people he cared about.)

Damian did not know who his father was. If he was honest, he often forgot he had one at all.

* * *

It's not long after that Damian finds himself back on the street. He's tired, but Mother is in a hurry.

(He pushes the thought away, so that he can believe otherwise. But a tired, sad part of Damian feels that the second reason is the larger factor in why she carries him.)

In his mother's arm, arms looped around her neck, Damian finds himself free to drift, to think. He doesn't have to worry about the larger people moving around (and bumping into) him or keeping a hold on his mother's hand and not getting left behind.

The noise and the lights, he finds, also don't bother him much. From here, he finds them interesting. So different from home.

It's a little odd that the sky catches his attention, but Damian has always been an observant child. And he notices that the sky in Gotham City is dark gray, and there are gray clouds, probably at least partially smog, swirling across it, lit up in the glare of the streetlamps and office building lights and neon signs. But there are no stars.

The thought makes him oddly sad. He's not sure why.

(He rather misses the stars.)

But then a small spot of white light in the sky catches his attention. He eyes it, waiting for a flash of red that would mark it as an airplane. It doesn't come. Neither, he realizes, is the pinprick of light moving.

A star. One star. But a star, nevertheless.

Carefully, he leans his head against his mother's neck, her hair tickling his cheek. She doesn't react, so he relaxes.

(She's distracted enough, he knows, so he lets his thumb drift to his mouth. He doesn't suck on it—he's not a baby—but he lets the tip sit between his lips. It's a soothing gesture, he doesn't know why and he knows he's not supposed to. But Damian is still a child, even if most refuse to acknowledge it. And Damian is tired.)

He's more comfortable than he's been in a long time. He ignores the _what-ifs_ that have been spinning through his mind since they left the diner, and the pit in his stomach reminding him that this comfort will not last long.

He just lets himself rest against his Mother, and watches the lone star.


	6. Billions of Beautiful Hearts

_Chapter 6: Billions of Beautiful Hearts_

It's Dick's idea.

"Obviously," Jason had snorted. He'd been insulting the idea ever since he heard of it, but he was also the one helping Dick plan all the details.

"Tim usually does it," Cass had explained. "He's good at planning. But college and everything is hard right now. He still wants to help. So we didn't tell him yet. Dick checked—he can come. He will want to come. So we'll tell him later." And it was true, looking back. Tim had been absent from the manor most of the day for the past week. His siblings, apparently, had noticed.

There was a suspicion that Tim knew but was humoring everyone. This stemmed from an unsigned, typed note left on Damian's desk. "Beginner's Survival Guide", it had been labelled. Some of the entries had been obviously ridiculous but the rest was sound advice.

"Of course this is not my first time," Damian claimed loudly. No one believed him, of course.

"Of course you're not," Dick said indulgently. "I'm sure you're a veteran." (Dick was another candidate for possible-author-of-the-note.)

There was a tease, somewhere in there. Apparently it wasn't _too_ much of an insult, though, because Damian only scowled.

Bruce and Alfred, of course, have been alerted that there is a plan, although the plan itself is still a secret. They're rolling with it.

"Bruce is actually making an effort NOT to figure it out," Tim had revealed (and thus also revealed that he DID know what was going on. Jason had squawked, indignant—though he would forever deny squawking.)

In the midst of all this, and a hundred questions, Duke wonders if someday he'll find a place in the wild west that is the Waynes.

* * *

Dick pulled him aside, earlier, and explained the plan.

"Look," he'd said. "I know this might come off as insulting, but I just want you to know. We all _want_ you to come—but if it's too soon, if you don't want to be a part of this just right now, then we all understand. Don't give me that look, Duke," he added, raising an eyebrow, "I just want you to know the option's there and it's all completely and _honestly_ your call."

A part of Duke _had_ been insulted that they'd thought he might not want to do this.

But as the day draws close, he begins to appreciate the option. He tries to hide the hollowness he feels as he wanders through the halls of Wayne Manor, but he is quickly learning the problem with living with a whole bunch of people raised by the World's Greatest Detective.

"It's always hardest around these times," Dick offers one day, quietly.

Duke...doesn't know all the details. But he _does_ notice that whilst the others offer small gestures of...(sympathy? Solidarity?) something-hot chocolate, a movie, an offer to join a coffee run, Dick is the only one who really _talks_ to him about...things.

He wonders, but he figures they'll tell him on their own time.

(He figures he owes them that. They give him space but let him know they're there, if he needs or wants them. He can wait until they feel comfortable speaking to him about things he _knows_ are intensely personal.)

* * *

On June 16th Duke joins the others in the kitchen. Jason puts him to work chopping mushrooms and onions while Tim whisks eggs, Damian makes toast, Cass fries hot dogs, Dick stirs some kind of batter and Jason appears to be whipping cream.

As the breakfast foods pile on the table, Duke expects a tray to make an appearance but instead Bruce and Alfred enter the kitchen.

There's 'good mornings' all around. Duke waits, but no one says "Happy Father's Day." Instead, Damian ushers the two men into the dining room while Tim and Cass grab platters and call for Duke to join them, please, else it'll likely take all morning, leaving Dick and Jason flipping crepes and omelets.

They have breakfast together, talking and laughing about anything and everything. Duke feels himself relax.

(Moments like these, he can imagine being a part of this Wild West.)

But after breakfast, they split up. They all convince Alfred that he doesn't need to worry about the cleaning, to just _go_ (turns out the butler has a daughter who'd like to have the day with her father). Bruce and Damian slip out (Duke wonders) and Dick and Tim follow a little later.

"Hey kid." Duke turns around to see Jason.

"Yeah?"

The older boy frowns and shifts to lean back a little, hands in his pockets, and says awkwardly, "Just wanted to ask if ya wanted a ride."

Duke blinks. Yes. He'd told...someone of his plans. But. "I'd...really appreciate that."

* * *

Seeing his parents at the asylum is always painful, and Duke rather wonders if he's just torturing himself by doing this.

They don't even remember him.

But at least _he_ knows they are here, and safe. Because he vividly remembers the time not long ago that he hadn't.

"Goodbye Mom, I'll come visit again soon," he reassures his mother (and misses the time before this bizarre role-reversal, although that's not the right word, really).

"Happy Father's Day, Dad," he whispers, and only takes one look at the blank face before he leaves.

Jason's Infiniti is waiting outside. Dick's in the front passenger seat and Tim and Cass are in the back.

Duke wonders what it means that instead of asking, "What are you all doing here?" he asks, "Where's Damian?"

"Out with Bruce," Dick says. "They had plans."

"We're going out for cheesecake," Tim says—

"Because my idea to go to the bar was vetoed," Jason interjects—

"Come with?" Cass offers.

Duke feels his lips twitch. He could do with cheesecake, he supposes.

"Sure."

* * *

The next day they make their big reveal.

A camping trip.

"Get out of Gotham for a bit," Dick mumbled at some point

It's strange, is all Duke can really say, as they load up two cars and start driving to Connecticut.

The Waynes. The Batfamily. On a family trip.

They meet up at rest stops every three hours and seating arrangements change frequently. Duke discovers that if Alfred or even Bruce are in the car, it tends to be quieter.

After spending three hours in a car with Dick, Cass, and Jason, he revises that observation to "tends to be more sane".

But it works, he realizes, as he watches them in a way only an insider who is still a little of an outsider can really see, and as someone who'd actually grown up in an emotionally average household can admit. They're a family, and they're friends enough that the whole thing isn't crazy awkward.

There's an hour until sunset when they reach the camp spot. It's an honest-to-God pitch-tents-and-make-a-campfire campsite, and city boy as he is and that he was sure the rest of the Waynes were as well, it surprises him a little just how well they manage—until he remembers that they're all _international_ vigilantes by now.

(Maybe he will be one day too, and isn't that just _weird?)_

They cook over the fire and eat and talk. Dick procures a flashlight and although everyone initially laughs actually tells a story scary enough that Duke is honestly sure he's just chase away his sleep for tonight, and the others are a mix of quiet and subdued and overly loud and obnoxious, until the laughing and joking and teasing makes everyone mostly forget again.

Eventually Alfred and Bruce excuse themselves to sleep, and although Alfred is left in peace Bruce is chased by old man comments. It surprises Duke when, rather than the noise escalating by a hundred decibels, the Wayne kids grow silent after the 'adults' leave.

It's a comfortable silence, though, and Duke feels it wrap around him, feels himself and his own quiet become a part of this collective peace. He finds himself sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms around them, staring into the fire and just _thinking._ Odd little thoughts.

He's only ever toasted marshmallows over a stove before. They had a gas stove and his mother always cautioned him against being careless, but his whole life he's pretty sure she's the only one to ever accidentally set something on fire.

He wishes they could've gone camping as a family. Just once. Mom and Dad...they're not exactly gone, are they, but they are, aren't they?

"This is why I wanted to come all the way out here," Dick says, softly enough that his voice doesn't cut through the quiet, rather just nudges its way along to each of them. Someone nudges Duke's knee with his own and he looks up.

Cass is sitting right beside him, knees up and one arm draped loosely over them, the other resting on the ground a centimeter away from his sneakers. Dick has one arm around her shoulders and the other resting in his lap. Damian is sitting cross-legged next to him and Tim is sitting in front of them, sideways, an elbow rested on Dick's knee. Jason is sitting on a rock behind Dick, close enough that his legs have to be digging into Dick's back, elbows on knees and chin in hands.

Duke thinks of his parents. He thinks of all the chances to say or do things, big and little, that would've let them know how much he loved them, that he would've taken advantage of had he known he would be without them so _soon._

Then he realizes that he's practically (actually) a part of the practical huddle the siblings have formed, and it makes him warm in the cold, hollow places that he'd been noticing more and more the past few days. He also realizes he's the only one not looking up.

So he lifts his face, too.

The sky above them is black and smooth and dotted with hundreds of pinpricks of white light.

(Some part of him knows that really, there aren't _that_ many stars visible in the sky above them.

But he's a Gotham City kid, born and raised. When he looks up at the sky with his new siblings, he sees billions of beautiful stars.)

**_End_**


End file.
